


He’s a Keeper

by what_is_happening



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, Football | Soccer, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Soccer AU, goalkeeper dream, im using clay in this story instead of dream, injured dream, medic george
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28593177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_is_happening/pseuds/what_is_happening
Summary: Dream is injured during a soccer game and is assisted by their team’s new medic, who just happens to be a cute brown eyed British boy.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	He’s a Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> if you ever have any questions about the soccer lingo used just comment and i’ll answer :)) also i know the title is cheesy leave me alone

Clay secured the velcro strap around his wrist, not too tight as to not cut off circulation but also tight enough to keep the gloves in place. He drew his hands into fists, reminding himself of the stiffness of the finger protectors within his glove, though he knew he was already accustomed. In the moments before his team takes the field, as his pre-game ritual, he balls his fists over and over, willing his head to be clear. Forcing himself to drown out the noise of the crowd, the opponent’s glares, and his own self-doubt. While he may have been doing this for years now, the nerves never went away. The feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if a rollercoaster was rocketing him downwards and twisting his insides, never dwindled. At least not until the game had begun. However, no matter the stress, no matter the pent up nerves, no matter how bad the need to run back to the locker room and throw up in an attempt to rid himself of this sinking feeling was, he was going to take the field. He always did. 

The coin toss had gone in favor of the other team, giving Clay the disadvantage of the sun in his eyes for the first half. He forced out even breaths. He was fine. The team huddled one final time, taking their last sips of water for the next forty-five minutes. Forty-five excruciating minutes where if you lacked the endurance, the opposing team, not to mention the scorching Florida heat, could mean you get pulled from the game, resulting in a stern talking-to from the coach and a new daily fitness routine to stick to until you’re deemed fit enough again. Clay had trust in his team though. Each and every one of them we’re talented, athletic, and so in sync with each other they seemed telepathic at times. The center referee finally blew the whistle, signaling the two college teams to take the field. As Clay jogged to the goal clad in his bright green jersey, waving up at the fans in the stadium and putting on a face of bravery, the sinking feeling had yet to go away, and he knew it wouldn’t until the kickoff. He shook his hair lightly, if he hadn’t had his goalkeeper gloves on he would’ve run his fingers through it, but his head shake typically got the job done. In the final moments before the starting whistle, Clay jumped a few times, bringing his knees to his chest and keeping his muscles warm. To any normal person, the hight he jumped would’ve seemed outrageous, but after fourteen years of playing this position, the hops were nothing but a way of keeping his energy up and his legs ready to go. Now with his focus on the ball in the center circle, he was starting to feel more at ease, more zoned in. And then there it was. The whistle had blown.

Clay picked up immediately the speed of the other team. This college team was almost specifically known for the speed of their players. He’d done his research, watched some of their footage, figured out the strengths and weaknesses of each individual player, and while doing so, creating realistic scenarios and deciding how best to approach each one in the real game. 

As time ran on, he came to pick up more, like how number twenty-three was crafty and quick with the ball at his feet but lacked good reaction time when his cunning was challenged. He was their defensive right wing. Number five was incredibly accurate in his crosses, Clay was glad to have picked up on that one, seen as if he hadn’t, the opponents center forward would’ve been able to get his head on the ball, which flew through the air on a near flawless cross from number five, but alas after judging the trajectory of the kick and taking into account the players already in the box, Clay had gotten to it first, leaping with his arms extend upwards and his knee out in front of him in case any players decided to challenge him in the air, they’d be met with a painful collision. 

The game seemed as though it was flying by, with save after effortless save. At least effortless to those who were watching. For Clay, each footstep had to be precise, each angle had to be thought out, and each jump perfectly timed. But by now it was muscle memory. The more action he got throughout the match, the quicker the time seemed to go, and soon enough it was halftime, the score still 0-0. He jogged off the field quickly, beelining to his water. This game was already draining him, but he knew his limits and he was still far from them. Clay took his seat on the center of the bench as the last of his teammates joined him. After his gloves were stripped from his now moist hands, their coach began giving his halftime remarks, pointing out significant things he had noticed, specifically pointing out to the forwards and midfielders to look for more combination plays and move the ball more precisely and with more meaning. Nearing the end of halftime, a few of his teammates stood to stretch and run a few quick sprints to get their head back into the game. While Clay took this time to refasten his gloves, the coach congratulated him on a near-perfect half and to not fall behind in the next one. Their opponents will be out for blood, desperate to get a goal off, but so was his team. It would come down to a battle of who wanted it more.

Yet again, the center ref blew the whistle, calling for the teams to take the pitch. This half, the sun was at Clay’s back, now giving him the advantage over the other goalkeeper, he reminded his forwards of this, encouraging them to shoot and shoot on frame. He took note of everyone’s positioning on the field and yelling encouragements to his center midfielders, who had it particularly rough the last half. Then in no time, the whistle let out a sharp tone, and the second half had commenced. Even to someone who had never seen a soccer match before, it was clear how much dirtier the game had gotten, as each play was desperate to assist their team in a victory. There were a number of more free kicks, and the referee had even dished out a few yellow cards, one of which to his team’s left-back. He had gone into a tackle a bit too rough in order to assure the ball didn’t go past him. A risky move that very clearly hadn’t paid off, as he had knocked his opponent to the ground in a fight for the ball, causing him to hyper-extend his knee just enough to let out a loud cry in pain. Clay quickly took note of the player readying to go in for his injured teammate. Number twelve, last name Roberts. He had recognized him from the research he had done on the team a week prior. He was one of the most creative players he had ever seen, able to get around nearly any opponent and pull any move with lightning speed.

“Nick!” Clay had to shout at his center-back, seen as the roar of the crowd grew louder when they noticed who was replacing the injured player. “Eye on twelve! He’s quick, don’t go in too hard! And when you pressure there needs to be cover behind you.” He turned to his other center back. “That’s you Wilbur!” The two nodded at him, getting in position for the free-kick the ref had called as a result of the hard tackle. However, the kick had gone straight to Clay’s hands, catching it in mid-flight and quickly rolling it to his right-back who had time to take it up the field. Time had flown until there were about ten minutes left in the game, and his team had finally managed to score. It was the most euphoric Clay had been in the past week. The feeling of being able to have a number to show for his team’s hard work had him screaming, pumping his fist in the air as he ran to hug Nick and Wilbur in pure excitement. He soon was forced to compose himself as the ball was reset in the center, and the whistle blown. No more than a minute later, Roberts had found himself with the ball at his feet well inside their half of the field. Clay began shouting at his defenders to drop back while Nick pressured, seen as their center midfielders were left in the dust. To compose himself and prepare for whatever this number twelve threw at him, Clay shut his eyes for a quick second, allowing his head to clear and the roar of the college stadium to fade to the back of his mind. The quickly approaching opponent passed the ball to a nearby teammate who fed it right back to him after he had darted past Nick. With the outside of his foot, twelve nudged the ball right after faking left to throw Wilbur off balance. There was no one behind Wilbur was close enough to get between Clay and the oncoming player. This was up to him. Roberts was now inside the box, his territory, and with the confidence of someone who knows his position in and out and has practiced these exact situations countless times, he closed in, starting big and the closer he got to the ball, getting lower as to cut off more angles. The second number twelve took a touch outward, preparing to shoot, Clay speedily stepped forward, blocking the angle and diving towards the ball and locking it in his grasp. But there was a slight problem. With the angle Clay had dove, and the speed at which twelve was running, there was nearly no time for his opponent to react. They had collided, Roberts stumbling over Clay, attempting to save his balance, and in the process, his cleat had landed directly on top of the skilled goalkeeper’s ankle. Twelve had managed to stay upright and only realized what he’d done when a scream ripped through Clay’s throat. 

Hugging the ball tightly to his chest with one arm, the other reached down to grab his ankle, the pain shooting up his leg and rippling through his whole body. The second his hand touched where the cleat had stomped, the pain nearly doubled as he could feel a bone, still under his skin thankfully, definitely not where it should be. Clay writhed on the ground, forcing his rising tears downward. ‘Not on the field.’ He thought to himself. There was no way in hell he was going to let himself cry on the pitch. By this time, the referee had whistled and run over, to remove the ball from Clay’s tight grasp, the team’s medic rushing to join him. He’d been squeezing the soccer ball in an attempt to distract himself from the pain and also from the tears threatening to bubble over. At that moment the ball was his lifeline. He knew this was the last time for a long while he would be on the field, playing with his team, his best friends. The last time he’d make an incredible save, leading to a win for his team. The last time he would be able to just go in goal and escape. Soccer was way more than just a game to him. As much as he hated the nerves, he loved them twice as much. For Clay, soccer provided distractions, an outlet, and a kind of happiness he hadn’t been able to find before. And in a matter of seconds, it was ripped away from, as was the ball he was holding onto like his life depended on it. Soon the medic was able to help Clay to his feet, who hobbled to the sidelines with his arm around the man’s shoulder. 

It took the two of them longer than Clay would’ve liked to admit to make it to the locker room, his benched teammates offering words of encouragement as he passed them. He offered a pained smile in return. The medic sat him down on a concrete bench inside the locker room and began taking a quick look at the already swelling ankle as the athlete took his gloves off. 

“I’m gonna have to take your boot and sock off, okay?.” The medic looked up at Clay, who immediately took note of, one, his very clear British accent, and two, his large brown eyes, laced with a hint of an apology for how much this next part was going to hurt. He was also a lot smaller than Clay had realized, his medic jacket making up for his narrow frame. The fluffy brown hair atop his head had been mussed up from how quickly he ran to the injured player’s aid. And if Clay weren’t in so much pain, he would have probably thought of it as somewhat cute. But alas, the only thing occupying his mind right now was his ankle, and what he was going to do if he couldn’t play soccer. All Clay could do to respond to the question the brunet had asked was a brief nod. “Alright, give me one second I’m going to grab a bag of ice.” He watched as the medic turned and jogged into a room to fetch the ice. As he turned though, Clay noticed the back of his jacket had “Davidson” written in white lettering across the top, and when he returned, handing the ice to his patient to hold onto before crouching back to the ground. 

“You’re our new medic right?” Clay asked, both to stall the process of taking his cleat and sock off because of the pain that would follow, but also because this is the first time he’s seen him actually out with the team. 

“Yeah. George.” He stuck his hand out with a smile for Clay to shake, which he did. 

“Sorry this had to be the first time we meet.” The athlete laughed dryly, George reciprocating the laugh, only a little more light-hearted.

“Well, neither of us could’ve really helped it.” He offered a polite smile before starting to untie the cleat and grabbing it lightly, preparing to take it off, but looking back up at Clay first. “Ready?” He asked softly. The athlete offered a quiet “yeah”, squeezing his eyes shut as George carefully slipped the boot off.

**Author's Note:**

> comments greatly appreciated :))


End file.
